A Long Journey To Amber
by Cynewulf
Summary: A lady from Shadow Earth, with strange dreams and stranger friends, discovers her 'supernatural' (as she thinks) abilities... Otherwise, she is sure she is mad... I promise ilegitimate kids and hellrides! Rating for light language.
1. Just a Morning

Disclaimer: The worlds of Amber, Chaos and Shadow belong to Roger Zelazny, together with all the Amberites and Chaosites mentioned in the books. Any original characters, like Jacqueline, Harriet and any other that may appear - are my property, heh...  
  
If you are confused in the beginning by not mentioning of Amber etc. at once - well, it's all part of the story. It will come... My grammar might not be perfect, as I'm not native English speaker, but I do my best...  
  
Have fun! ~Cynewulf  
  
It wasn't the first time in my life to go to bed with a guy, and then to wake up with a message - so I wasn't too bothered. I noticed some embarassement deep in my stomach, though - the guy had left his phone number, and I, try as I might, couldn't even remember his name. Without looking at the signature, at least.  
  
"Honey," (I read, already slightly irritated over this needless intimity). "I had to go to work, didn't feel like waking you up only because of this. You'll find some croissants and youghurt on the kitchen bank. I bought them for you together with some "morning-after" pills - just in case. Last night you said you didn't use any, but you know my opinion on that matter, so..." (no, I didn't know it, didn't remember it - and didn't care). "I hope you don't take it as too forward a step from my side, I did it only because I care... Hope you will have a beautiful day. I know I will, thinking only of you!" (I wanted to vomit!).  
  
"Call me during the day," (I read on), "so we can see more of each other.  
With love and care,  
  
yours  
  
Sammie"  
  
I began to laugh aloud, and then stopped, doing a quick introspection. No, as far as I knew, this "Sammie" definitely wasn't my beloved husband for ten years already, or anything like that. Or was I crazy?  
  
I'm easily disturbed in the morning, and, having gotten all paranoid, I grabbed the phone and dialed a number. No, not my "with love and care" one-night-stand.  
  
Harriet answered, and by the buzz in the background I councluded she was stuck somewhere in a traffic jam.  
  
"Jacki? Are you ill?"  
  
I considered for a moment.  
  
"I guess you are refering to my physical condition?" I inquired. "All my toes are in their proper places, so - no. I guess I'm OK. Just in need of a big cup of coffee."  
  
"I'd make one for you if I were there, but sorry. What are you doing at home at this time anyway? If you are healthy and sane as you say you are, I mean?"  
  
"Healthy like an oak. A healthy oak, I mean. As for sane... What time is it, anyway?"  
  
Harriet snorted. She had that bad habit of criticizing me by a single inarticulate sound. Trough her nose.  
  
"If I guess right," she said, "and if you are still in your bed..., Well, you have a big shiny clock on the oposite wall. Anyway, it's somewhat past nine."  
  
"Hell! Late Again"  
  
"You never think of setting that alarm clock of yours, do you? It can ring, you know. There are some tiny buttons on the backside, and if you only..."  
  
I couldn't help but laugh.  
  
"God, Harry, I wasn't quite in a condition for such last night.  
  
"You are going to get fired one day, and then..."  
  
"And then I'll find a new job. Simple. Come on, Harry, you know I hate being preached at this early in the morning..."  
  
I anticipated her answer, something in line with " 'early in the morning' is a term that can be discussed", but she spared me.  
  
"Hey, we are moving!" she said instead, her voice full of fake enthusiasm. "We gained almost a meter! At this pace I'll be at work by 6 p.m. at worst!"  
  
I swallowed my comment of uselessness of standing up early in circumstances like this. Instead, I got on the matter.  
  
"Look, Harry, I didn't call only to keep you company and to stop you from murdering the guy in the car before you. I know you can do it in a very creative and somewhat morbid way, but still..."  
  
"Why then?"  
  
"Well, to start from the beginning..."  
  
"Do it, Jacki. Please. You know how much I hate starting from the end, and..."  
  
"Look," I interrupted her, slightly irritated. "I love your witticisms sometimes, but now simply isn't that sometimes. So, please please shut up!"  
  
"Sorry."  
  
Harriet was like this every time she was irritated, and even Saint Francis would be irritated over the traffic in New York on Tuesday mornings. On the other hand, Harriet was my best friend from junior high, and the only person whatsoever whom I could call at this point - without causing reactions like "God, Jacqueline, how could you, it's terrible!". Most of my female friends used to get drunk and have one-night-stands once in a while, but only Harriet didn't go all hypocritical about it.  
  
So, I told her about my getting up with the message.  
  
"God, Jacki, don't go all sentimental about it, now. It's better than waking up embraced with a bold guy in middle forties, the one who sleeps in his socks."  
  
No matter her prickly nature, Harry was always able to make me laugh.  
  
"It's not that," I chuckled. "It's the type of message. All like: 'I bought you youghurt and morning-after pills, please take them'. Almost asked me to marry him.  
  
"Why, that is actually sweet. Maybe you finally ran into a decent guy. Let me guess - he left the phone number as well?"  
  
"Yeah. And it's the only thing that convinced me I'm not mad, or haven't lost my memory, or that I don't have double personality."  
  
"God, Jacki, you don't need much to go all paranoid."  
  
"You haven't seen the message. It actually made me wonder if we were happily married for ten years."  
  
"That would mean you got married at 17, so - nope. You are sane. Feeling better now?"  
  
"Yeah. I just wanted, well, to share.  
  
She paused, and then:  
  
"Another two meters. This is promising."  
  
She giggled.  
  
"Now what?" Harry continued, after a terrible swear and a loud sound of siren that made me glad she didn't carry a gun. "I actually think you should call him back. Seems OK to me."  
  
"Seems psycho to me," I snorted, and I could literally sense her rolling her eyes.  
  
"Listen to me, now. Please, Jacki. And don't interrupt. You are 27 now. Most girls your age have begun to think of a relationship. I mean a real relationship, like moving in together with a nice, responsible guy. Sharing the life with someone, and all. Having kids. Biological clock and all, remember? I know you feel young, and all, but trying to be a bit more mature wouldn't harm you at all. I'm not saying you should marry off to the first guy who remembers to buy you a breakfast... All I'm saying is - don't run away at once. Simply...give it a try. When you have talked to him once (In a sober condition, I mean), you'll know if he's your psycho... Though your definition of a 'psycho' is rather arguable, knowing that..."  
  
I stopped listening. 


	2. Pills, Kids, and Alice

Disclaimer: All the characters and such belong to Zelazny, blah blah, look at the disclaimer in chapter #1. A/N: I know this chapter is not too funny, but there are some background things that simply need to be explained. More action in the next one, I promise. Even a fight!  
  
I stopped listening. I knew exactly what she was going to say - at length. She was probably right, she knew what she was talking about, my Harry. In a more or less stabile relationship (with a computer nerd) for five years already (was it that long? God, we were getting old...). She simply looked at the world trough her own binoculars which, it saddens me to say so, were not mine. However much I loved her and respected her opinion, I was aware even than that we were immeasurably different in some ways...  
  
I made myself crowl from the bed, taking the mobile phone with me (Harriet still talked, and I inserted 'yes', 'no' and 'haha' in proper places), trying to pack my purse as I stumbled in the direction of the kitchen. While I was making coffee and dig for a relatively clean spoon, Harriet continued her mantra about maturity, stability, and the time of taking the responsibility. About the braveness one needed to grow up and take the life in one's own hands. Such things. She wasn't boring, but we had been trough that conversation time after time, so I didn't see the need for listening - not again.  
  
I thanked God (or whoever dwelled up there) for the fact that I've never had a hangover. The pleasant bitterness of strong coffee without sugar worked it's way trough my body, and Harriet and I finished the conversation with an arrangement for lunch.  
  
I hadn't told her about the strange dream I had that night - the one that kept coming to me, time after time, at the turning points of my life. I would tell her, I thought, I would at lunch... But I had postponed it intentionally - simply didn't have guts for all that this early (whatever!). Harriet was a very good attorney, but a surprisingly poor psychiatrist, though she loved playing one. Her 'interpretation' would have to wait for my better mood, though...  
  
Harriet was right about one thing, however: kids. I strongly desired a baby, no matter that I was 27 and still had plenty of time. Alice had born me at the age of 35, and Jacqueline, my grandma, was unbelievable 45 when Alice came to the world. Long life and the ability of bearing kids late in life sort of ran in the family. Surprising infertility as well... Many strange things did.  
  
But still... I obsessively desired a kid. I didn't need a husband for that, though Harriet was of different opinion (but, God, it was Harriet, after all!). I just needed a spermatozoid that would find the way. I had grown up without a father, as my mother did before me, and her mother as well. All my female ancestors seemed unable of keeping a man by their side. Guys came and went, but none stayed too long, and it didn't bother me much. Alice, my mom, liked to think it kept happening because of ours "strength of will", but I had a theory that our...wanderlust... was the cause of it all. I have no idea if that thingy can be inherited, or if we learn and accept it as small kids. The only thing I knew was that one place could never hold me for long. I would become restless and unhappy, I needed to go somewhere new, to continue the search for the perfectness I knew in my dreams. It would probably hold me my whole life; it worked for Alice that way. As for Jacqueline Senior, my grandma, it was much worse. Alice, at least, used to ring and leave her new address, if she suddenly decided to move away. Jacqueline, on the other hand, was lost somewhere in the wide world, and that at the age of - God, 112.  
  
Was she that old? It seemed almost impossible when one thought of it rationally - but it was a fact. Once I saw her ID - and it said 1890 for the year of her birth all right. I wouldn't consider Jacqueline incapable of having a false ID - that woman was able to do anything - but what lady would proclaim herself older than she actually was?  
  
The train-of-thoughts almost made me miss my actual train, so I hurried up. I finished my third croissant, wondering a bit about "Sammie". Then my eye fell on the morning-after pills; I studied them a bit, and then cast them together with the other garbage. I didn't need them, nor any pills at all. As I have stated already, I wanted a kid, but trying hard as I may, nothing happened. My infertility was somewhat of a legend for my gynecologist and his colleges. Everything was perfectly OK with my organs, I was strong and healthy as a tree - but, annoyingly enough, nothing happened. Stubbornly nothing happened. I treed calculating my fertile days; then the doc decided it was too stressful, so I stopped and relaxed. Still nothing. Harriet kept scolding me for not using preservative; nothing in the whole world could stop her from listing all the nasty diseases I could catch that way.  
  
Only, it seemed that diseases were more afraid of me than Harry was of them. I've never even had a flu in my life, not to mention something of a more serious nature.  
  
Still, no kid.  
  
I sighed.  
  
I lit a cigarette as I chose the clothes for today. A long, low cut dress, of course. I wear elegant dresses even when I go hiking. What? Why the hell not if I like them!  
  
My colors, of course. Olive green to match my eyes and off- orange to match my hair. And a big purse, that was probably heavier than myself - but who cared...  
  
Catching a metro was definitely a better choice than driving at a morning like this - Harriet's experience was enough for me. Sitting comfortably - well, as comfortably as it is possible in New York underground, anyway - I opened the purse and started choosing the book for the long ride (a dry hour from home to job). I contemplated a bit over Blake's poems, but Lord of the Rings seemed as a better choice at the time. I had read it dozens of times all right, but it was my favorite book, and that's what they are for. I had vague plans of rereading Jordan's Wheel of Time sometime soon, so I had packed The Eye of the World as well... But, after everything that I had dreamed, heard, and survived since last night, I simply felt need for the battle at the Helm's Deep. So LotR it was...  
  
And people wonder why my purse is always this heavy!  
  
I was just coming to the part dearest to me, the one when Theoden rides out as the dawn breaks - when my mobile rang.  
  
The call was from Poland, and Poland meant Alice, my mom. It was a bit of a surprise for me. We usually heard from each other at holidays and such, but weren't much in contact otherwise. I checked my memory, but no, it was not my birthday. Harriet wold have remembered, anyway...  
  
"Alice? Somewhat wrong?"  
  
"Everything OK with me," she answered in her accent-affected English. I thought she faked it from sheer perversity - she was as much American as Ben Franklin was. And she hadn't lived in Europe longer than 7-8 years.  
  
"How are you, Jack?" she inquired, using my family pet-name, that served as a distinction from Jacqueline senior, the grandma.  
  
"Fine," I smiled. "Still no guy, still no kids. Harry is well, also," I added, anticipating her next question.  
  
"That's good to hear. Anything new otherwise?"  
  
"Well..." I paused. "I had that strange dream this night. Again."  
  
"The one about the sparkling blue thingy carved in stone. The curved whatsitsname?"  
  
"Yep. Still no idea what it might mean... I must mention it to my therapist again some day..."  
  
"Do," she answered. "But, well, it's really strange... There is a thing I haven't told you... First you were too young, and then...I guess it just slipped my mind somehow..."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Jacqueline senior had the same dream a couple of times. You didn't know about it, did you?  
  
I inhaled trough my teeth.  
  
"Nope. Never. What about you?"  
  
"I've known it for a time..."  
  
"No, I mean have you ever dreamt it?"  
  
"No."  
  
I thought for a moment...  
  
"I can't think of an explanation, other than a supernatural one. Heh. I guess you don't want that."  
  
"No!" she answered sharply. She was always that way when someone mentioned anything that could include magic, ghosts...even horoscope.  
  
"I thought so. Well then... I'm on my way to job and..."  
  
"Wait a minute. I have something to tell you. It's...Jacqueline called on this morning."  
  
"She what?"  
  
Alice sighed.  
  
"She came to my door, I have no clue where she got the address... Anyway, she didn't want to come in. She just gave me a bundle that I should send to you. Didn't have money herself, she said, and was too busy. Wanted you to have it, though."  
  
"Any idea what might be in there."  
  
"No clue. But seems like some papers."  
  
"Will you send it to me, then?"  
  
I didn't here her answer, because my conversation was rudely interrupted. Someone from behind slapped me hard on the shoulder, and I winced. When I indignantly turned around, preparing to scold whoever-the-bastard-was, I saw... I saw this big guy, all muscle and such, frowning down on me, as if I had murdered his fave drug-dealer or something. Oh well...  
  
"Stand up!" he growled.  
  
I stared at him in disbelief.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Stand up I say. I want to sit down."  
  
I frowned at him than, trying to figure out what was it he actually wanted.  
  
"There is plenty of seats, around, you know."  
  
"I want to sit here!" he snarled, and pointed at the place where I was seated.  
  
Is that so? I thought, as I rose slowly, looking straight into his eyes. 


	3. Unexpected Troubles

For a disclaimer, look at the chapter #1.  
  
Don't mind my grammar too much, I'm doing my best, but I'm not  
a native English speaker.  
***  
  
"What the hell! The battle is not always to the  
strong, and nice guys tend to win because they're the ones  
who get to write their memoirs." - Sir Roger, "Blood of Amber"  
(Yeah, I knighted Roger Zelazny, so what?)  
***  
  
Is that so? I thought, as I rose slowly, looking straight into his eyes. With a corner of my eye, I saw people backing away. New Yorkers, I rolled my eyes mentally. If someone was to kill you on the street, in the broad daylight, they would turn their eyes in another direction. Run away a few steps, maybe, and than stop to watch. Entertainment for free. Oh well... I didn't expect any help whatsoever, and I sighed, annoyed.  
  
"If I understand you right," I said coldly, "out of sheer perversity you want to seat on my place? Although there are other vacant seats around?"  
  
He grinned at me - a nasty grin, that, almost as nasty as the knife in his hand. You know that kind of knives: the dirty, rusty ones, that would probably give you a blood-poisoning simply by your looking at them. If there is something that infuriates me more than arrogant bastards that enjoy showing their supposed strength on people unlikely to oppose them - that is people that don't take proper care of their weapons.  
  
"And," I continued, taking control over my rage, and channeling it into even colder voice, "if I don't move away, I guess I'll be history, you'll change my physical description, send me to meat my maker, I'll be food for worms, and such?"  
  
The guy began to realize that I was mocking the ass out of him, but wasn't creative enough to growl anything else but:  
  
"Move, lady, or you'll be really sorry." (he said it without commas and apostrophes, though, and it pained my ear of a linguist)  
  
In the last few years I had taken pride in my new-gained self control. When I was younger, I used to be annoyingly hot- tempered, exploding at a minor provocation, and being unable to implode again for hours. My body temperature would rise to 40 degrees Centigrade, my fists would clench, and the nostrils would go wide like lake Michigan. Good that I had never had a mirror handy, or I'd have got seriously depressed over my looks at such moments. It was Harriet that convinced me I needed an anger-management course, and it kind of helped. Now I needed the tricks I learned there, and needed them badly. Imagine a turmoiled lake, waves raging, cloudy sky of a storm... Than, suddenly, it goes completely calm. Concentrate on details. The willows at the bank slightly moving in the breeze. The quacking of the ducks diving for fish. An old man rowing in his boat. Glitter on the water. I inhaled slowly, feeling somewhat cooler.  
  
Doug, my instructor at the course, would now tell me that I should simply go away, leaving the dumb bastard to his triumph. It was no use fighting stupid people, the people inferior to me in all ways. I would than say it was unfair, that I had my rights, that, being superior as he put it, I shouldn't have to leave the battlefield as a loser. But I could clearly hear Doug's words in my head: "Quarreling with him would get you down on his level, you would be the same animal as him. Not a human. Only by ignoring him you can be what you really are. Not a false ignoring, the one you would use to show him you are better. No, I mean real ignoring, not caring whatsoever. Not eating guts out of yourself about it afterwards. Just... not caring at all." Susan, my therapist, would probably tell me the same thing.  
  
"Will you move your ugly little flat ass or not?" he snarled.  
  
I could put up with a nasty guy trying to take my seat. I could forget about the people watching and having fun on my account. I could ignore most of the stuff that happened in this petty, unworthy world...  
  
But an unintelligent, uneducated person, that hardly deserved being called a person at all, a guy that has probably never even heard of the third declination of Latin pronouns, the one that has never ever cleaned his own knife, not to mention his teeth, in his entire life - such a guy calling my ass little, ugly, and, worst of all, flat???  
  
No way.  
  
I felt my fists clench on their own inniciative, my nails cutting my palms, my jaw tightening, and the red hot point in my stomach exploding and taking over my body.  
  
I had a blackout of a sort.  
  
The next thing I knew, I was holding the guy by the collar, his feet hanging five or six inches above the floor in a desperate attempt to kick me. He aimed a nasty blow at my face with his knife, but I was faster, gripping his wrist with all the strength of the fury boiling inside me. He yelped and dropped the weapon, but I lost my concentration for a moment then, and he punched me in the kidney with his left fist. I dropped him then, bending over from instant pain, but in a moment I stood straight again. He was trying to regain his balance, and I used the moment to turn sideways and plant an elbow in his chest. Then I made a mistake and tried to think of a next movement I should make. I used to take classes in self defense when I was sixteen, and didn't remember too much of it. In fights like this it is always better to listen to your instinct than to engage in rational thinking. One's body tends to remember things one's mind has forgotten long ago. Anyway, he regained his breath and kicked me in the stomach with his right knee. It came somewhat unexpectedly, so I was unable to avoid the blow. I stumbled backwards, desperately trying to breathe, and he used the moment to grab my left hand and twist it backwards, as I growled. I was bent over, in pain, unable to move and wondering if my arm was broken. He was bending over me, clutching my left arm now as well. The logical move for me would be to try to kick him in the balls with a heel. He knew it, and I knew he knew it. So, no. I bent my head down, and then raised it backwards in a violent motion. He released me instantly, and I jumped away, turning as I did it, only to see blood all over his face, his nose probably broken. We regarded each other for a moment. He was significantly bigger than me; he was a man, after all, probably used to street fights. I was an academic woman, fit but basically small, and unskilled at any sports beside swimming and swordplay. Figure out for yourself.  
  
"You are dead," he snarled, most creatively.  
  
I was thinking about an answer like: "We are all at long term," and then realized that it was more creative than his threat only for an inch or so. I didn't have time to say anything, though.  
  
It was easy to predict his next movement, but not that easy to prevent it, having in mind that we were on a train, fighting between the rows of seats (now all vacant). He crushed on top of me than, throwing all of his weight against me. Expecting this, I was able to kick the knife away (it was still laying on the floor beside me), to grab both of his wrists, and to clip his left calf with my right shoe (thank God for the heavy shoes I wore, though it didn't help much). Now he was laying on top of me, and I tried to kick him in the groin, but was too slow, and he avoided it. Both of his wrists were still in my grip and he couldn't pull them free. Using the last strength, for which I had no clue where it came from, I held him that way, and he was unable of punching me. I couldn't hold on that way much longer, though, I already felt his hands pushing mine down. If I released his wrists in order to hit him in the nose (already broken; God, it would have been a hell of a pain - I feasted in the thought for a moment, bur it was impossible), anyway, if I released his wrist, I wouldn't have a chance of pushing him away whatsoever. And he would probably beat the hell of me...  
  
A sudden movement of the train came in handy, than. He was out of the balance for a moment, and I used it to roll on the side, pulling him with me. Now I was on top of him, without a clear idea what to do. My position was better than his, of course, but it couldn't last long, having in mind his superior weight. I planted a knee in his groin; the movement lacked the momentum of a normal kick, but it was still painful - I could say buy the look of his widened eyes and open mouth. It hurt. Good!  
  
I felt a bit like a bitch, but this was not a moment for thinking about honorable fight and such. The people that talked about honorable fights were usually big, strong, and skilled guys, and they had no need to worry whatsoever - they won anyway. They could afford the luxury of fighting honorably.  
  
I used his moment of pain and twisted his hand outward with all my strength (that still came out of an unknown source). The crack of the bone was audible in the silence that ruled over the train, and I could feel numerous eyes watching me. Good. Let them see I didn't need their bloody help! Bastards!  
  
I released his left arm, that was now out of use for a time, and aimed a nasty blow on his nose. An irrational feeling of guilt stabbed me: beating fallen enemies and such...but I stubbornly defended myself. Mentally. Honorable fight my ass, the guy was twice as big as me. And I had to win this one. I had to. If I let go of him now he would attack again. Or, even worse, he would come back later, when I least expected him... Waiting for me in a dark street, with a couple of his buddies, all armed. No, no way!  
  
I kicked him in the balls again, than used my fist on his face several times. His left hand, still in my grip, went all slack, and I could say by the glassy look in his eyes that he was drifting away. I used the last few seconds of his consciousness to smack his head on the floor a couple of times, and then I felt a gentle touch on my left shoulder.  
  
I turned around violently, ready to jump up and fight with another bastard, if need be...  
  
But it was only an old-ish man - a priest, judging by his robes, his hands instantly raised in front of his face, as in defense.  
  
"It's OK. It's OK." he said almost inaudibly. "Let go, now. It's over. No need for that now. He's unconscious. You won. Let go. Don't kill the man without need. Let go. It's OK. It's over."  
  
"Oh, shut up," I muttered, but I stood up, slowly, the bruises on my body beginning to burn. I looked around, at the tensed, stunned faces around me, and grinned evilly. It was easy to read their minds at the moment: a thin lady, dressed in a (previously) elegant dress, the one that actually reads on the train (and a thick book, at that)... so, such a lady, beating a crap out of a big, nasty guy with a knife. Unbelievable! I grinned even wider, and took the handkerchief that the priest offered me. I wiped the sweat and blood from my face (blood, thankfully, not being my own), and heard the murmur that was finally begin to rise. Old women with large bags (old women somehow always carry large bags), businessmen with dyed hair, eternally-frowning teenagers... all talking at the same time, as if someone had turned them from stone back to life.  
  
I looked at the guy lying on the ground, unconscious, and a sudden fear gripped my stomach. I crouched beside him and checked his pulse. Beating slowly, but still beating. Thank God!  
  
"Thanks," I turned to the priest, not referring to the handkerchief, but to his preventing me from killing the guy. In the rage of fight, I could have done it. I knew I could have... And now, I was immensely happy that I didn't. Hell, fighting is ok when you have to do it, when you are defending yourself and such. But I hated hurting people.  
  
"I guess someone will be so kind as to call the police?" I said to no one in particular, as I walked back to my seat, packed LOTR that was laying on the ground, the poor thing, and picked up my purse. My enormous bag, that is...  
  
The thought occurred to several people at the same time, and I could see some of them taking their mobile phones. I turned to the priest, a bit apologetically: "I have to go, I'm afraid. I'm already late for the job, and I've missed my stop. I'll leave you my phone number, so that you can give it to the police..."  
  
He simply nodded. It seemed that no one was in mood to try to stop me from leaving.  
  
***  
  
I walked the streets, still in the state of shock. I was aware of the stares of passer-byes (A/N: or is it "passers-by"? I can never remember that...), and so didn't care. My right hand was hurting, probably from being twisted so violently, and I didn't dare imagine how I looked... My dress torn, my hair a mess, cheeks probably still burning... Why was this never mentioned in the stories? Eowyn, for example. She was nastily hurt, almost dead, after the Battle of Pelenor Fields, and still she looked pale and beautiful. Than, the Aes Sedai. Disturbed, stilled, crying... but Jordan never mentioned that their hair was a mess. Heh...  
  
I entered the first pub I saw, and wolfed down a whiskey. I needed it badly, after everything that happened, and for that matter, I needed another one too. I never carry a mirror with me, it would probably break in my purse, among all the books, so I borrowed one from the stunned waitress.  
  
"What happened?" she asked, but I shrugged her away, frowning.  
  
She probably thought I was a whore, beat up by a nasty customer or something. I smiled at the thought, but it hurt even to smile. I inspected my face in the mirror, noticing a long scratch over my left cheek and a big blue bruise that was beginning to take form on my left eye. Hell!  
  
After the whiskey number two (excellent Irish Mist), I walked out, deciding that I couldn't go to work looking like this. I didn't dare check the time, as I was probably terribly late, but it took only a few minutes to run in a shop, try on a dress, and buy it. Rather expensive one, at that, but what the hell... It was orange and olive green, and I wanted it!  
  
Taking a cab in crowded New York would be of no use whatsoever, so I walked back to my job, and contemplated on the way. Fighting. Me fighting. Even worse, me winning a fight. With a big, corpulent guy who carried a knife! What the hell...  
  
The last time I was in a fight, I was sixteen, and a guy has tried to rape me. Ended up in a hospital after that (he, not myself). Coming to think of it, that one wasn't much probable, either... I was taking my self defense lessons at the time, but still... I was a slender girl, and he a muscly bastard. But - I had won that fight, as well as this one... Most improbably.  
  
I didn't know what the hell was going on... It was practically impossible for me to be that strong, for the strength it was, to be sure... Skill could help you, of course, and I remembered a few neat tricks from my course, but... What the hell, I had been laying under the guy, and he was unable to push my hands down. With all his strength and weight, he was unable to do it. That, I was sure, didn't have anything to do with skill...  
  
But where did it come from? The strength, I mean. I used to go swimming sometimes all right... I practiced swordplay with Harriet once a week ever since the first year of the Uni. OK, we were not using stupid rapiers, but real, heavy, two-handed swords (ones for practice, of course, with numb edges). That did give you strong arms. Yes. That must have been that. Thank you, sword.  
  
On the other hand, neither Harriet nor I had had particular problems with the swords' weight even the first time we took them in hands. Other girls did. Even some guys did. Not Harriet and I, though...  
  
"OK, we are super-humans," I muttered to myself, smirking. "Hitler would be proud of us."  
***  
  
I can just imagine what I looked like when I entered the office. Donna, boss's secretary, stared up and down my body, counting the bruises on my arms, avoiding to look at my messed- up face, and silently criticizing my brand-new dress, that was too low-cut by her standards (she thought such dresses should be forbidden by law for anyone but herself). I knew the woman hated me for being slim without keeping a diet (ever!), but she seemed furious at me lately for some other reason as well. I did have a clue about what that might be, but it was so ridiculous, that I didn't even bother to think about it...  
  
I smiled at her, enchantingly and evilly, and she didn't have guts not to smile. Good. Yet another battle won.  
  
"Er... Jacqueline?" she muttered.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"The boss said he wanted to see you. If you show up, that is."  
  
"Okie-day," I said in a singing voice, not showing my embarrassment a bit. Hell, now he is going to scold me for being late again! I hated when he did that! Yet, this time, I had a good excuse. I grinned, entering his office. I even had witnesses!  
***  
  
"You are aware of the time, aren't you, Jacqueline?" Mr. Carpenter asked, raising his eyes from his keyboard, and trying to look strict.  
  
And than: "What the hell happened to you?"  
  
I told him, and he stared at me in disbelief.  
  
"A fight? You being in a fight?"  
  
My looks vouched for me, I guess, so I didn't have to explain further, and hoped he won't push further. I just smiled. Enchantingly.  
  
It didn't work, of course.  
  
"Still, if you left on time, you would have been here earlier, no matter the fight and all. I can not tolerate this longer, Jacqueline. You are doing a good work for us, I must admit that, but you come when it pleases you, and..."  
  
I smiled wider.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Donna is behaving a bit strange towards me, of late," I said.  
  
"What does it have to do with...?"  
  
"I used quite a long time to explain you about the fight. It strikes me, suddenly, that she wouldn't like to see me stay this long in your office. With the closed door, that is."  
  
"What are you trying to say?"  
  
"And Mrs. Carpenter wouldn't, either, I guess."  
  
He stared at me for a moment, and then exploded in righteous fury.  
  
"Are you threatening me?"  
  
OK, I had been bluffing, and if I were wrong, it would be a terrible mess. But he had just admitted. I winked at him, like at a fellow conspirator, and felt like the worst bitch in the world.  
  
"Sort of," I said.  
***  
  
It had gone well, if you choose to call it that, and I was finally in my office, sitting in the safest place in the whole world - in front my computer. Had I been able to stare at myself, I would have done it in utter disbelief. I had just blackmailed my boss, threatening to tell his wife about his lover. What is even worse, it worked.  
  
I hated doing things like this. It was the thing a bitch would do. And all that after kicking a guy in the balls and all. Hell, what a day!  
  
I began to sink in depths of self-pity, and stopped myself. Hell, I had to do it. I needed this job. The job itself was a crap, of course, especially for someone with education like mine. Doing dumb business translations from Icelandic for the Corporation; crap! Sometimes I wondered why the hell I had bothered with the master degree in sigil... ('sigil' by the way, is a professional slang for CGIEL, Compared Grammar of Indo-European Languages). But, with all my knowledge of Ancient Greek and Old Norse and stuff, I couldn't find a better job. So, that was it. And I needed this one...  
  
I connected online, and began doing stupid personality tests. The work could wait, and I desperately needed little piece... 


End file.
